And they call me Mac the Knife - Heather

WHEW.

Relax, mate, relax, I tell myself.

No kidding, a round of action always leaves me a-quiver – even a totally imbecilic round of action like that one was. I’m embarrassed to even tell you about it, but here’s how it happened.

I feel Robbie starting to tense up – Robbie’s the idiot upstairs I’m hanging with – and next thing I know, I hear him holler, “You there, hand over the bag,” His hand’s fishing around for me, and I’m thinking, ALL RIGHT!!! – some action on the road! – and then CLICK, he presses the button and, SNICK, I’m ready to go – and holy meat-ax, what do I see but a little old lady, 80 if she’s a day, cowering and hanging onto the strap of her handbag, and I’m thinking, Christ, I don’t DO little old ladies, and next thing SNICK and I’ve whistled through the STRAP of her bag, and they’re wrestling away over the handbag, and he drops me, and I accidentally take a slice off his bare leg on my way down, and I’m lying there thinking, “This is really some way to go”. Then Sandy comes to the rescue, barking so fiercely the old lady gives up and lets go of the bag. Robbie (miracle-of-miracles) remembers to scoop me up and off we go.

So now we’re sitting here, me lying on the park bench beside him, Sandy at his feet, and him cursing up a storm and trying to wrap some little handkerchief from the handbag around the bleeding leg. It’s enough to make me wish I’d been born a butter knife; I mean, if you couldn’t get a handbag off an old lady with a butter knife, you should think about changing your line of work.

Anyway, that’s the trio. There’s me, SCO – Switchblade in Charge of Operations. Next in the chain is Sandy, the sharpest canine I’ve ever worked with; notices everything, doesn’t miss a trick, always there exactly when you need him. And bringing up the rear is Robbie. Robbie is a long way from being the sharpest tool in the shed. The only blood this guy’s drawn so far is his own. He came close to taking his finger off the first time he pressed my button; he sliced a hole in his hand in his excitement the first time we got into action; he ripped an inch off his arm when he tripped over a guy’s briefcase. And now, this leg business, which is going to require a stitch or two if I’m not mistaken. If you were a little unkind, you’d say Robbie was hopeless. But he grows on you.

Not for the first time, I find myself wistfully remembering the good old days with Fierce Franz, sending people into the hospital left and right and every single one of them truly deserving it. Ahhhh, Fierce Franz knew how to play the game, but to tell the truth he was a little fixated. This more sedate pace with Robbie and Sandy as offsiders suits me somewhat.

So here we are, sitting on the park bench and counting today’s takings. From what I can gather listening to Robbie’s mutterings, it’s been another day, another 35 cents. Sandy gives him a sympathetic lick and we all watch the sun dip into the ocean.